Him (Him #1)(36)

Wes nudges me, then points at a street sign we’re passing. Cummings Road.

“Like that joke has never been made before. Now who’s the pre-teen?”

He stiffens for a beat, as if he didn’t expect me to make a reference to last night. Then he snorts. “Let’s play some soccer, Canning.”

Indeed.

First, Pat gathers everyone around. You can’t ask a bunch of highly competitive athletes to play a friendly game of soccer without going over a few rules first. There will be two twenty-minute periods. And will the offsides rule count? Yes it will. Is slide tackling legal? No. “Because I will f*cking kill anyone who injures himself,” Pat adds.

Good to know.

We’re playing five on five, and I’m in the goal, of course. I can see Killfeather over on the side, watching me with a grin on his face. He’s not a bad kid when he forgets to be stressed out.

I’m not stressed, either. I’m bored to tears, because Wes and the other guys are giving ’em hell at the other end of the field. We’re up 1-0 by the time I have to make my first save. A soccer net is a lot bigger than a hockey goal, so saving the net seems more haphazard. But I stop Pat’s shot in my hands and my team cheers.

I set the ball down on the line, back up and kick it downfield. Before it reaches Wes, he gives me a little smile, then traps the ball with his chest. It drops to the ground between his muscular legs and then he’s off running, controlling the ball, masculine beauty in motion.

Suddenly I’m thinking about sex again. In the middle of a game.

That’s never happened before.

The next time the ball threatens our goal, things don’t go so well. Our defense falls apart when Pat is able to deke my teammate Georgie, leaving the most senior coach unguarded. The old man promptly fires a flying saucer right at me.

I leap, but it sails past my thumb and into the corner of the net.

Wes makes an ornery noise, and I can see he’s about to lay into Georgie for leaving us wide open.

Meanwhile, Killfeather and the rest are watching. I walk over to Wes and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” I say, holding my hand up for a high five. “We’ll get the next one.”

Wes is a quick study, so it’s no surprise to me that he catches on. He smacks my hand. “Yeah, man.” Then? He reaches around behind me and gives my ass a quick squeeze.

Holy…!

I can’t help that my eyes dart around, checking everyone’s face for a reaction. But there isn’t one, because nobody saw. And even if they had, it’s such a Wes move that nobody would think twice about it.

But I do. Because even if I’m not freaking out about what we did last night, I don’t want anyone else to know.

If Wes was a girl, I wouldn’t care, though.

And why is that, exactly? my conscience wonders. It’s a good question, and not one that I’m prepared to answer. And anyway, there are ten more minutes of soccer to play.

We hold at 1-1 until there are only two minutes remaining. Then Wes gets lucky with Georgie’s corner kick, heading the ball into the top of the net. And we’ve won. I collapse on the grass and yell for Killfeather to bring me a bottle of water.

He does, but he pours some of it on my face before handing me the rest.

“You are such a punk,” I complain, and he laughs.

The walk home takes longer than it should, because the coaches are sweaty and tired. “So who do you room with?” I ask Killfeather.

“Oh, with Davies.”

“Really? How’s that working out?”

“It’s all right,” he says. “He’s not bad when he’s not on the ice.”

I file that away to think about later. And I let my eyes linger on Wes. His gait is so familiar to me. The way he carries his shoulders hasn’t changed in the nine years I’ve known him. The way his hamstrings tighten with each step is as familiar as my own hand.

There’s a warm feeling in my belly when I look at him. And it’s not just sexual. It’s…comfortable. Like we’re close even when he’s twenty yards ahead. I wear a consciousness of him like a second skin.

Okay, that sounds a little creepy. A little too Silence of the Lambs. Sunshine and sexual confusion have gone to my head.

Just before he reaches the dormitory, I see Wes answer his phone. And when I arrive in our room a minute or so behind him, he’s frowning out the window while he talks.

“What if I don’t want to do an interview?” he asks. His tone is recklessly belligerent if he’s talking to a PR person. Careful, I feel like saying.

“This isn’t a good idea. Why set me up just to lie?” There’s a pause on Wes’s end. He kicks off his shoes with more force than is necessary, and they fly with an angry thunk into the desk we never use. “Dad, if I tell them there’s a girlfriend, they’re going to ask her name. And then what would you have me say?”

Ah. The conversation makes more sense now. Wes never got along with his father. Every phone call home had always ended with Wes red-faced and irritated. The one time I met Wesley Sr., I found him to be awfully arrogant and demanding for someone who sits at a desk all day.

The fact that Mr. Wesley isn’t happy about his son’s sexuality comes as no surprise to me at all.

In front of me, Wes hunches his shoulders. Without thinking too hard about it, I step forward and put both hands there, squeezing the muscle between his neck and shoulders. I dig my thumbs into his traps and push.